Chapter 39 Timothy
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Timothy
The second I walk into Ink & Iron, I know I should’ve stayed home.
The lights are too bright for how early it is. My shirt collar feels tight, like it’s trying to choke me out before Mitchell gets the chance.
There’s a smear of yesterday’s stencil ink still on the counter, dried into a blue ghost, and somehow that’s the only thing that feels normal right now.
The vibe is off… smoke before the fire off.
No hum of music. No smell of coffee. No Freddie humming under his breath in the back.
Just Mitchell.
Already here.
Already brooding.
He’s parked at his station as if he’s been up all night, sketchpad open, pencil working overtime. He doesn’t even look up when I walk in, which, okay, not entirely unusual, but today?
It feels pointed.
“Morning,” I say, real casual.
No answer.
Alright. Cool. This is how we’re doing it.
I drop my bag behind the counter, glance around, and try not to take the bait. He’s probably just hungover on three hours of sleep and two decades of emotional repression.
But still.
“You want your coffee or are you too busy committing graphite homicide?”
His shoulders twitch, like he’s trying to shrug off a phantom weight. The pencil taps against the page in this manic little rhythm, faster and faster, until he finally snaps his head up.
And it’s not a look. It’s a glare.
Oh good.
Here we go.
“You knew.”
I blink. “Huh?”
He throws the pencil down. “You knew, Tim. About Ivy. The pregnancy. You brought her here.”
“I brought her right after she told me,” I say, keeping my voice low. “She wanted to tell you herself.”
“You didn’t think maybe I deserved a heads up?”
“She literally told you the second she walked through the door. A few moments after she told me.”
“That’s not the point,” he snaps.
“Well then what is the point?” I shoot back. “That she didn’t break the news with a powerpoint and a warm cookie?”
He’s up now, pacing, jaw tight.
“This is huge, Timothy. Life changing. And you… you just acted like it was normal!”
“No,” I say, stepping in, “I acted like a functioning adult. One who didn’t yell at a woman having a panic attack in the middle of a tattoo shop.”
Mitchell’s eyes flash. “I didn’t yell.”
“You didn’t not yell.”
“Stop.”
“Make me.”
We stare each other down, both breathing hard now. Mitchell’s whole body is coiled, like he’s waiting for someone to punch him so he can punch back harder.
My pulse hammers in my neck so hard it almost hurts. Part of me wants to flinch back, but I keep my feet planted. Because if I give ground now, he’ll take the whole damn floor with him.
“You always do this,” I say finally, quieter now. “You push people away. You panic and you shut down and you run.”
“Not true,” he mutters.
“Really? Because yesterday you were half a sentence away from moving to Portland.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
Mitchell’s jaw works, like he wants to say something but can’t figure out how to form the words. I know that feeling. Been there. Built a summer home.
“You’re scared,” I say. “Fine. So am I. So is Ivy. But you don’t get to burn the whole place down just because you don’t like the temperature.”
He snorts, turns away.
“Look,” I say, exhaling. “I get it. This is big. You’re spiraling. But don’t pretend like this is all on me. Don’t act like I betrayed you just because I support her.”
Silence.
He rubs a hand over his face. Tired now. Deflated.
Mitchell exhales sharp, like he’s trying to get a grip. Or maybe he’s going to let this die down.
No such luck.
“You’re in love with her,” he says suddenly, snapping the silence.
It lands hard.
My chest goes tight. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The walls are pressing in on me. He says it as an accusation.
“You think I don’t see it?” he adds, voice rough. “You’ve been following her around like a puppy since you met her.”
I go still.
Not because he’s wrong.
Because for once, I can’t laugh it off. Can’t deflect. Can’t hide behind charm or sarcasm or whatever deflection tactic I’ve made an art form.
So I don’t.
I just meet his eyes and say it.
“I didn’t mean to be.”
That shuts him up.
“You wanted this harem thing to be fun, Mitchell,” I say, quieter now. “And it was. At first. But feelings don’t exactly care about the rules, do they?”
He stares at me, jaw clenched. He’s seconds from throwing something.
I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.
“I care about her,” I say, voice low but steady. “And yeah, maybe it started as fun. Maybe none of us thought it would get this far. But it did. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t give a damn just to make you feel better about running away again.”
There’s this awful, heavy pause.
Outside, a car horn blares down Main Street, distant and hollow. The neon ‘Open’ sign in the window hums, flickering at the edges. I can hear Mitchell’s ragged breathing, sharp little inhales, like he’s drowning on dry land.
His breathing gets louder. Rougher. I see his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“Say that again,” he grinds out.
I swallow, my own hands shaking now. “I said I care about her. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”
And that’s it.
“Mitchell…”
I barely get his name out before he shoves me back against the counter, his forearm pressing into my chest. I shove back, hard, adrenaline roaring through my veins, and we slam into the front desk with a crash that sends pens scattering across the floor.
“Stop!” I hiss, grabbing his shoulders and trying to push him off.
But he doesn’t. He keeps pushing into me.
“Fuck you,” I snap, grabbing his shirt and driving him backward. He hits the wall behind his station, sketchbooks and ink bottles crashing down around us.
He roars, actually roars, and slams me back. My spine cracks against the corner of his station chair. My vision swims, rage and pain mixing into something feral.
“Enough!”
The voice booms through the shop loud as a gunshot.
Both of us freeze.
Mitchell’s fist is cocked back. My hands are twisted in his shirt, chest heaving. We turn as one, panting, to see Jesse standing in the doorway.
His face is thunder.
“The fuck is going on?” he demands, slamming the door shut behind him so hard the windows rattle.
Neither of us speak.
Mitchell drops his fist. I let go of his shirt. We’re both still breathing hard, sweat and fury making the air around us heavy.
“Answer me,” Jesse growls, stepping closer, eyes darting between my split lip and Mitchell’s bloody knuckles. “What the hell is this?”
“Nothing,” Mitchell mutters, wiping his hand on his jeans. He winces as he does, skin already purpling across his knuckles.
“Bullshit,” Jesse snaps. He turns to me. “Timothy.”
I open my mouth, but the words won’t come. What am I supposed to say? Oh, hey, just your sister’s maybe baby daddies beating the shit out of each other before breakfast?
“I asked you a question,” Jesse says, voice low and dangerous now.
I shake my head. “It’s nothing, man. Just… tension.”
“Tension,” he repeats flatly.
Mitchell turns away, breathing ragged. He grabs his pencil off the floor with shaking fingers, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
Jesse looks between us, jaw clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
“Where’s Freddie?” he asks finally, glancing around, expecting him to pop out from under a table.
“He’s not working today,” I say, voice hoarse.
Jesse’s nostrils flare. “I came to check on him. Thought he was opening.”
“He’s home with Penny at the moment.”
Silence stretches, brittle as glass.
Jesse rakes a hand through his hair, exhales sharp through his nose, then points between the two of us. “You two need to figure this out in a better way than beating each other.” He turns and stalks out the door.
The bell jangles violently behind him, leaving nothing but pounding heartbeats and the sour tang of blood in my mouth.
Mitchell sinks onto his stool, head in his hands. His shoulders quake once, twice, he might sob or scream or both.
I taste copper on my tongue as I wipe my lip.
Outside, the sun keeps rising.
Inside, I’m not sure anything will ever be the same.